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laundrybiscuits · 1 year

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Will’s looking at him with those tragic eyes, this kid who’s almost as tall as Eddie but seems centuries younger, infinitely more fragile and breakable. And shit, Eddie is not at all prepared to be some kind of queer mentor. He’s barely keeping his head above water with Robin, who doesn’t expect him to be anything other than a peer with a little more experience in his pocket; he’s a piss-poor option for baby Byers, who desperately needs some kindly gay Gandalf in his life. A role model with like, a long-term boyfriend and a city job and one of those yappy purse dogs.

But Eddie’s the only one here, and what else can he do? So he takes a deep breath and prepares to say something really wise and mentor-y. He doesn’t know what it is yet, but it’ll definitely be both appropriate and profound.

“I mean, it worked out for you, right?” says Will.

“Uh,” says Eddie, thrown completely off track. “What?”

“With—” Will flushes, but continues in a low voice. “You know. With Steve, and all.”

“What,” says Eddie again.

“I mean, sorry if that’s…I know you guys haven’t exactly been telling people, but…you know you can tell me, right?”

“Ahahaha,” says Eddie. “What.”

“I think it’s nice, how you guys managed to move past all the high school stuff and find each other. It’s like—a happy ending, right?”

“Right. I mean, wrong. I mean, whatever you think is going on, it’s not. Jesus christ, Will the Wise, there’s absolutely no way anything would ever be—where are you even getting this? We’re not—we’re not.”

“Sure.” Will rolls his eyes, and Eddie is reluctantly reminded that this kid can be a catty bitch too sometimes. “That’s why he was wearing your Black Sabbath shirt last Tuesday, and why you keep Springsteen in your glove compartment, and why his car is parked in your driveway almost every night. Dude, Dustin doesn’t even bother calling Loch Nora when he’s trying to find Steve now, he just goes straight to your place.”

Laid out like that, it’s a little damning.

“That’s—all out of context,” says Eddie weakly. “And—and Steve is straight, anyway. So. Check and mate, Byers.”

Will lets out an annoyed breath. “I’m sixteen, you know. You don’t have to—look, sorry if I’m pushing too much with this, but…don’t lie to me, okay? Friends don’t lie.”

Eddie’s heard the kids say that last thing every so often, like a mantra or some godawful affirmation. He huffs, shaking his hair out of his face.

“Y’know, that little catchphrase you’ve got isn’t the worst rule in the world, but it’s not the most nuanced, either. Ever heard of discretion, kid?”

“Right,” says Will. “Discretion.” He winks at Eddie, squinching the whole side of his face up like he’s never actually tried winking before, and Eddie is momentarily struck dumb with how terrible the effort is.

Just then, Dustin barrels in talking a mile a minute about some idea he needs Will for immediately, yes right now, Eddie’ll still be here afterwards, come on.

As Eddie watches them go, he awards himself one Gay Gandalf point for effort, and negative five million points for the trouble he can smell coming down the line.

(eta: I am a god damn liar. continuation here.)

#this is not the start of a new fic #it's just an unattached snippet #that last ask got me thinking about how Eddie handles his relationships so I wrote up a quick thing with Will #I'm not saying it WON'T get a continuation someday #or even some kind of intro that would give it literally any context whatsoever #but it definitely won't be any time soon if it does #tbh I think it's a bit of a cliche and idk if I can spin it enough to make it interesting for me to write #fic: young man what do you wanna be

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eloquentsisyphianturmoil · 12 days

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Just learnt ‘Findis’ is a combination of ‘Finwë’ and ‘Indis’—

they were that sort of sappy parent.

#This is actually hilarious to me hang on imagine it #dude’s first marriage produces an eldeitch horror of untold power that kills his very sensible very talented kind of freaky wife #He remarries straight into some cliche happy family bet they do matching Christmas photos every year and indis does pilates #Like imagine of Jane and Barry called their kin jarry that’s so stupid I can’t even describe #‘Oh look love she’s so cute the perfect combination of you and me WHY DONT WE NAME HER AFTER US LIKE PSYCHOPATHS’#Fucking dying #feanaro would’ve been old enough at this point to lose all faith in his mother in law at this point #That is literally her only documented name the other option is Tolkien literally could not be bothered #ANYWAY #silm shitpost #silm reallyshitpost #silm #silmarillion #the silmarillion #Findis #finwe #the silm fandom #silm fandom #the silm #tolkien #jrr tolkien

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yuu-mao · 5 months

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I find it weird some people are disappointed Kieran didn't get posses? I honestly was praying that theory wasn't right

Something about possession being the reason a character does fuck up shit feels like taking away from a character complexity. I like Kieran the way he is, a kid with issues, and I wouldn't like to see that complexity getting muddled with the "he was possessed" argument

#kieran #trainer kieran #i have strong opinions on how possession can affect a character arc #probably because a certain blue haired martir I love from another franchise got kinda screwed over development wise thanks to a possession #so I have thought about it for way too long #making a character actions under possession seem like they matter for said character outside of guilt is #it's just #complicated #so you give them a guilty conscience #and that's kinda cliche and boring let's be honest #or making them fundamentally changed by said possession #the best answer in my opinion #but it literally never goes that way #anyway this was about Kieran being a better character without a possession plot #not my complicated feelings about agency and possession and character arcs

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galehowl · 2 months

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Never understood this whole "you're not original for drawing the same overused tropes/it's cliché" thing people use to be assholes lmao

A lot of tropes are also popular for a reason and I'll draw whatever the fuck I want however many times I want in however many iterations I want if I like it lol

#literally don't like don't look #this isn't related to me btw I just see other artists get these comments a LOT #I also just love when people praise one artist for using these so-called “overused tropes” but put others down #when they also draw similar themes and things they enjoy LOL #let people draw as many tropes and cliches as they want #it's fun #and people also do art for themselves not you specifically LOL #want them to draw something else then pay them #text post #this annoys me

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coldresolve · 4 months

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Moneymakers, pt.xliv // Interlude

Previous / AO3 / Wattpad / Masterlist / Next

The house is breathing. There’s no other way to describe it.

An inhale. The room expands rapidly. The walls disappear from view, as does the ceiling, and the floor on which he lies. Conrad feels like he’s falling. Not just suspended; falling, with all the associated panic, the flailing limbs, the flickering sense of orientation. Lights flash around him, and sounds spring from constantly moving sources, a voice that talks to him from below, then above, then below, then above…

Then he’s conscious. It’s the equilibrium, the second between inhale and exhale, where the air moves in neither direction. Dizzy, he raises a heavy head to peer down the length of his body, the fabric over his chest stained red and grey. His eyes seek for meaning and find it, albeit briefly, in the scene unfolding at his side. One foreign hand holds his elbow steady, while another grasps his palm, like a handshake, and slowly lowers the wrist outwards at an angle from the rest of his body. The colors pulse against his retina. His shoulder slides into place.

An exhale. Like water seeping between the fingers of a tightening fist, the air is suddenly pushed out of the room. Humid, smothering. It’s not just that he can’t breathe; it’s the way the room closes in on him, a crushing weight that encroaches on his body, relentless. Conrad is trapped in the lung of a sighing giant, pressed between its ribs and the contracting diaphragm. Concrete doesn’t care much for the plight of the living. Its texture is rough against his skin, and the pain is amplified by the heat of the friction it causes. It hurts so bad. It hurts. The words bubble from his lips. He’s pretty sure they’re not real words, but that doesn’t seem to matter, they leave him just the same. Burst in the air, silently, gone.

There are two facets to it; one is the heaving, the bending of the plasterboard, dipping down towards him, deep beats of pressure, before it retracts once again, and he is free. Another is the texture. Subtle clusters of color and light which pulsate to the rhythm of his heartbeat, writhing like a colony of ants, grainy against his tongue. He can taste the ceiling in some instances, sharp and bitter, coppery.

“You have to lie still.”

Lie still. Still. You have to lie still. You have to lie.

Sharp exhale. Falling concrete slams the air out of his lungs, mounting an incomprehensible weight on his being. The house’s guts churn around him, stone grinding against stone. Arms pinned to his chest by a grip that doesn’t budge, no matter how hard he pushes against it. Red shrieks, and the looming silhouette of his murderer.

Time stands still in the moment where the tension finally breaks again. The sting is drawn out, whining in the aftermath of the crash. He misses against the light, but it vanishes. Seventeen years ago, late at night, they stopped at an inn somewhere along the I-95; Conrad pretended to be asleep. Yellowstone never stuck, but no force on earth could take that memory from him, of being carried through a maze of unfamiliar corridors, rocking along with the steps of his dad, watching the wallpaper drift by through the careful slits of his eyes. An aching cheek is tucked against wool in the thoughtless pursuit of a heartbeat. A heavier core, longer limbs, strange gravity.

He reaches out, blindly –

His hand meets nothing but air.

Previous / Masterlist / Next

#writing #moneymakers #conrad #i know the 'the hallucination is a metaphor' trope is overdone and not how psychosis works but listen. listen #at least i didnt literally make him hallucinate his dead/absent loved ones. so there #also the whole story is a metaphor anyway so i think ive earned that cliche

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nightswatchdisbandmentera · 21 days

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Just letting asoiaf fans know that subversion does not necessitate avoidance.

Yes, subversion does not necessitate avoidance!

I repeat, SUBVERSION DOES NO- *gunshot*

#let’s add deconstruction to the mix #how many times do I need to tell people that #“rlj cant be real because it’s cliche” is not only NOT a convincing argument #but it greatly misinterprets grrm’s engagement with the genre?#he’s not going to avoid the hidden prince trope guys he’ll tackle it head on #also the “jon can’t be aa/tptwp because he’s a boy and that’s cliche”#jon literally exists in this story to be THE fantasy protagonist per grrm’s own admission and his own narrative choices #how he engages with the trappings of the genre involves deconstructing jon as the chosen one/prince/king #so it’s gonna happen but the question will be “what does it ultimately mean for the boy to be born solely for prophecy and magic”#“who can he be inspite of or rather despite this destiny” and “can he choose to be anything else?”#some of the arguments people come up with make these books far less interesting as works of literary fiction ong #asoiaf #jon snow #valyrianscrolls

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theghostwrites · 1 year

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I'm on my hands and knees begging the women get more screentime

#Daisy jones and the six #should be called Billy dunne and some others #I DON'T CARE ABOUT HIM SHOW ME THE WOMEN #His story is so cliche it's been done a million times #idk if the book is like this too #ugh and his wardrobe is so ugly #Daisy bby stay away you deserve better #Camila aka literal sunshine too #daisy jones & the six

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quirkle2 · 4 months

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who wants zombie au writing. don't answer that ur getting it anyway (1.6k words)

His shoes knock against the old flooring of the house, wood creaking under rubber soles that slide over the woodgrain. He drags them a bit, lifts his limbs up no more than he strictly has to, and they lead him to the nearest sittable surface.

The couch is old and dusty and has likely gone untouched for months, much like everything else nowadays, so he watches the thin cloud of dust billow off the cushions largely with disinterest. He collapses into the fabric heavily, feels the whole thing scoot back an inch and hit the wall behind him. The sound echoes, carried by lifeless rooms, while he unceremoniously drops his backpack to the floor by his feet.

The breath he lets out is slow and methodical and born of pent up muscles, aimed at the ceiling where he rests his neck against the back of the couch and relaxes every limb one by one. It’s a process he forces himself through, if only to rid the constant ache beneath his skin.

Slow, sweeping footsteps meander around the room in front of him, and Ritsu angles his gaze down from his craned back position to look at his brother. He wanders, like he so often does—seemingly aimless, but there’s something procedural about it that he’s convinced he just hasn’t figured out yet.

Shigeo’s empty eyes crawl along the hearth of the fireplace, explosions of ash sprayed out across the red brick. His head tilts up to trace his attention around the angular lines of the television, hung on the wall and screen grey with dust. He flits back and forth between the roundness of the bricked mantle and the sharp edges of the screen, like he’s taking notes.

Shigeo paws the television. Four lines of muck are cleared. The zombie blinks, paws at it again with dusty, curious fingers. Ritsu watches him make a mess of the television screen in silence, blinking tiredly.

He almost closes his eyes, but he fights against the urge and moves his fingers down his lap to reach for his bag. His middle hooks around the loop at the top and he lugs it up and into his lap, where he unzips it and peers into the shadowy contents.

Ritsu fishes out the water bottles. He finds the one with the messy R scribbled along the cap in sharpie and takes a big swig of it. It’s warm going down, constantly insulated in a bag of old, sweaty clothes. He feels like he can taste the odor in it, but it clears the grain in his throat from stomping all over dirt roads today, so he’s still grateful.

He holds out the one labeled S to Shigeo. “Thirsty?”

Shigeo looks at him from where he’s crouched down to the floor now, inspecting the soot along the hearth. Unfortunately, he sees handprints in the black already, and when his brother reaches a hand out to take it, his palm is covered in soot.

He lets him have his fun and settles his own bottle back in the mess of tangled clothes and rolls of bandages. Ritsu rakes his fingers through their stock with no real purpose—he knows exactly what’s in here, and none of it is useful.

They’d been searching all day; Ritsu doesn’t really know how far they’d walked, but it had to be a lot of miles. In and out of stores, up and down empty houses, weaving between warehouses—they didn’t really stop for a break. Not when Ritsu can hear Shigeo’s stomach from here and he himself has shaking hands. They can’t afford a break.

Nothing, though. Not a single goddamn thing worth taking. A settlement must have come through here long ago and swept the highway. They’re in the countryside, where houses are spaced out acres from each other and there’s entire cow pastures between properties. And yet every house they’d seen and entered provided nothing.

Ritsu stares into the negative space in his bag where there should be supplies. His stomach cramps and if he smells another whiff of that godawful sweaty, bloody sweatshirt he still carries, he’s going to throw up bile.

He leans away from the open pouch, eyes wandering to his brother who draws… something into the soot of the hearth. His water bottle sits on the floor, abandoned and still unscrewed. Ritsu leans forward with great effort and a grunt, leaning over his bag to grab at the top of it.

It takes him two tries to get Shigeo’s attention, and one more for an answer on where the cap is. It’s then placed in his palm, covered in soot and also saliva. Ritsu swallows down the nausea that rolls up his throat and wipes it off with his frankly already disgusting sleeve, and screws it back on.

He leans back again, succumbing to the urge to let his eyes rest, and he listens to the very subtle swipe of his brother’s hands across brick. There’s birds outside, chirping, and even though it’s still very much a common occurrence, Ritsu cannot help but feel nostalgic about it.

If he ignores the awful hum of silence, and the distinct lack of an electric thrum throughout the walls, and the fact that this is a stranger’s couch and not his, he can almost imagine normalcy. He can almost say this feels like those quiet moments after school, when he settles on the couch and scrolls through his phone in a house that only holds him and his brother because their parents simply aren’t home yet.

He can almost hear the creak of wood from Shigeo walking around his room upstairs. He can almost tap his fingers on the couch cushions to the pattern of his brother making his way down the steps. He can almost hear the fridge opening, and the sound of milk being poured into glass.

Almost. But Ritsu listens to sharp silence instead, and he tries not to think too hard.

He drifts for a while, feels himself truly sink into the couch and let the cushions claim him, and he thinks about nothings because if he doesn’t, then he’ll lose it. He carefully sifts through the nothingness of his mind, through the passing thoughts that have no bearing, and he focuses on that, on the lack of substance. His head is too full of things that have too much substance.

He misses boredom. He tells himself he misses boredom—the complete insubstantiality of it—because if he lets himself think of what he really misses, it’ll drive him insane.

The cushions move, and Ritsu peels his eyes open and lets himself get pulled from liminal mindspace. The cotton in his head recedes, and he blinks, and then he’s swiveling his head to look at his brother who sits in the cushion right next to him.

His hands and the cuffs of his hoodie are smothered in black. Shigeo sits hunched, gaze still wandering even when there’s not much decoration in this house to look at. He studies the off-white walls, the chips in the paint, the holes drilled in where there maybe used to be photos hung.

Ritsu gazes at him quietly, chest instinctively rising and falling to match his brother’s rhythm. He watches the expansion there, under his hoodie, in the subtlety of the folds and the way they warp over the movement. It’s slightly quicker than what he’s used to, but Ritsu knows his brother’s heart rate is much slower. He’s felt it before. He’s listened to it before, with his ear against a chest.

Ritsu’s attention moves to his eyes, and the heavy bags underneath them, and the paleness of his pupils and the ghostlight of him underneath that. He stares into them, looks for stray, familiar thoughts that might enter his head. Looks for old memories that might shine through in the form of recognition when he sees furniture layouts, and candy wrappers, and ads for soda.

Ritsu looks for it all the time, that glint of familiarity. And he finds it, sometimes. And really, he thinks that’s keeping him going more than food ever will.

Shigeo turns his head, and looks at him. Sometimes, when his brother looks at him, there’s not much there. No substance, no anything. And Ritsu finds it a bit evil that he craves silence in his own head, and yet noise in Shigeo’s, and often times it is the other way around.

His brother looks at him now, though, with that comforting recognition. That growth of the pupils, that softening of the hard edges of his face where unknown stressors have gotten to him. Ritsu wonders what zombies get stressed out. He figures it’s the same deal with humans, considering they’re largely alike.

Ritsu wonders if Shigeo knows he’s sick. He wishes he could ask him. He wishes for a lot of things. Silence in his own head is one of them.

Ritsu swivels his head away and stares at the ceiling, if only to force the thoughts to pause. He studies the popcorn ridges above them, traces the peaks with his gaze. It calms him, gives him something to focus on. He looks for patterns in the shadows they make.

Shigeo shifts next to him. And then he shimmies down, settles into the cushions, and plops his head right down on Ritsu’s shoulder.

Static roars in his mind and his heart stammers. Ritsu swallows the lump in his throat but that just makes it bigger, so he clamps his mouth shut and breathes carefully through his nose.

The tears cut through the grime on his face. He plops his own head down against his brother’s, and lives in the noise.

#qkwrites #zombie au #hi <3 #why am i nervous to share this . jayshut up #just to be clear this isn't going to be a full fic #i don't ? believe in my ability to write a Good zombie apocalypse story #at least one in a novel-like layout yaknow #partly bc i know i'll struggle w the logistics and consistency #but also bc i haven't seen a whole lot of zombie media before #i've never watched the walking dead i've never seen any of the popular zombie movies or shows #i think i watched zombieland 2 once ... the one with woody harrelson and thatone guy #uhm. he looks a bit like michael cera but he's Not michael cera. im not crazy he Does resemble him #jesse eisenberg there it is #but that's.the extent of my experience with zombie things #so i!!! wouldn't know if im just making overdone cliche shit #i prolly already am.this concept is prolly old news. i wouldn't know i don't fucking watch zombie stuff VGEAIYVA #idk.my confidence for this isn't there so im not makin it a fic even tho i kinda want to #but i do still wanna write them. so any zombie au writing will be in little micro-scenes like this <3 #some of em might be bigger than others idk yet. we'll see #i Thought i could call this a drabble. but then i learned that drabbles are literally supposed to be exactly 100 words #this is . notthat GVIYEAGVA #ritsu kageyama #mp100 ritsu #mp100 shigeo #mp100 mob #shigeo kageyama #i feel bad putting this in the main tags but.i mean it Does pertain ....#not the mp100 tag tho . iwon't do that to u

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